


Where the wind blows

by octopus_fool



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Khazâd November
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 11:25:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12629946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octopus_fool/pseuds/octopus_fool
Summary: Glóin has never particularly liked spring, but he doesn't think he would want to be a deep-downer either, despite what Óin says. Throughout his life, Glóin's feelings about spring and being overground evolve.Mention of Gimli/Legolas.





	Where the wind blows

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 4 of [Khazâd November](https://a-grump-of-dwarves.tumblr.com/post/166304116735/khaz%C3%A2d-november-2017), the additional prompt was "spring".  
> 

Glóin was not particularly fond of spring. The sun burned in his eyes, the bird song annoyed him and the flowers made him sneeze. Óin liked to joke that had Glóin not had the misfortune of being born in exile, he would have been a deep-downer, holding fast to traditions, rarely leaving the mountain and having little to do with the outside world. Glóin scoffed at him and told him that Óin was just trying to distract from the fact that his fascination for using herbs for healing instead of the time-proved minerals and mushrooms was unnatural. Secretly, he wondered if Óin was right. 

Would he really like spending all of his days underground where no sunlight would touch his skin? He tried to imagine it, all his trading taking place beneath the mountain, no trips to the towns and villages of men for a game of cards, a gamble or a beer. His purse would be a good deal lighter, that was for sure. Taking advantage of dwarves just wasn’t the same as winning game after game of cards against a man that had boasted he could win against a dwarf even drunk out of his mind. And as much as he hated the discomforts of the road, Glóin loved the sense of adventure and the satisfaction of a day’s good travel. 

No, Glóin decided, listening to Fimla’s snores, he would never be a deep-downer, not even if his life had taken him down a very different route. 

He woke up to the birds screaming outside the window. Being a deep-downer would be entirely wonderful, if only he had the chance.

 

Erebor was retaken. Glóin chose an abode deep in the mountain, where the wind didn’t blow and the birds didn’t sing. Fimla laughed when she saw it. 

“Your brother was right all along, wasn’t he?”

“If you would prefer a dwelling closer to the surface, we can move. There are still plenty of good homes higher up,” Glóin grumbled. 

“No, this one is fine. As long as you don’t become entirely too traditional.”

 

Glóin loved the crunch of autumn leaves beneath his feet when he walked down to Dale for business dealings. He relished the beams of sunlight shining through the forest the men had planted whenever he made his way to Lake town to buy a barrel of their special beer or some of the little salted fish Fimla enjoyed so much. Watching the snowflakes drift past the battlements gave Glóin a sense of peace he had rarely felt before. But in spring, Glóin retreated to his abode deep in the mountain and became the deep-downer his brother had always accused him of being. 

 

Glóin had always been proud of his son, but his pride had never gone deeper than when he watched him in Gondor. The work in rebuilding Minas Tirith he had done with so few dwarves in only a few weeks time was impressive and the dwarves and men he worked with followed his word as they would follow that of a lord. Nobles of men and elves alike treated him with true respect, not as the useful tool folk of their station usually treated their people as. When there were jokes, Gimli was part of them, not featured in them. Time and time again, Glóin resisted the urge to tell everyone he met that this wonderful dwarf was his son, the dwarf he had fed porridge to, taught to fight and gifted his axe. Instead, Glóin set his chisel to the stone with enthusiasm and a rare smile on his lips.

 

The months passed and Minas Tirith shone white from the mountains in the bright light of the sun. Men passing in the street noted that the city had almost regained its old beauty, thanks to the King’s guidance, his friends and the dwarves they had summoned to help. 

“We are nearly done here,” Glóin pointed out during one of his evening conversations with his son. “Are you thinking of returning to Erebor soon?”

Gimli stuffed his pipe and looked out across the city and the Pellenor fields. He took his time answering, lighting his pipe first. 

“If you wish to return to Erebor, I can understand. I will come with you, if you wish. I know there was much destruction in Erebor and Dale as well, and I would do my part if Thorin Stonehelm needs me. However, I have promised Lord Faramir to help him with constructions in Ithilien, so I would return to Gondor after a while.”

Glóin nodded slowly. “Then let us stay in Gondor until the task is done. Thorin Stonehelm has enough good dwarves that he won’t need our help that desperately.” They lapsed into silence, watching wisps of fog drifting up from the Anduin like the smoke from their pipes.

“You are considering not to return to Erebor permanently,” Glóin stated.

Gimli blew out a cloud of smoke. “I have told you of the glittering caves. There has been a wish long growing to lead a company of dwarves there, should Thorin Stonehelm allow it, and start a settlement. It is not Khazâd-dûm, but there is good, solid rock and good trade to be had with the men of this region.” 

The lights of the farm houses on the Pellenor Fields started twinkling into life. In the lower levels of the city, a dog barked at a group of men singing on their way from one tavern to the next. A cloud of smoke hung around Glóin’s head. “You do not need my blessing for this, but I would give it to you, should you decide this is your wish. You will be a Lord of your own right and the lands around will become richer than they already are, should their kings prove to be all they promise. And you will be closer to your friends.”

You will be closer to your elf. Glóin did not say the words, but they hung unsaid in the cloud of smoke.

 

Winter in Ithilien was mild. The chill that settled over the land was not enough to make Glóin’s joints creak as he formed Ithilien’s rocks into blocks, pillars and buildings. Old leaves covered the ground in a soft carpet, the few snowflakes that fell looking more like a dusting of sugar than the deep blankets that hid Erebor in winter. 

On a day in March, Glóin finished the decorative edge of a block of stone that would complete the eaves of the town hall. A soft breeze tickled his beard and Glóin looked up to see that the clouds that had been turning the sky grey for days were tearing into tatters and slowly drifting away. The must of old leaves and earth was growing stronger now that the days were becoming warmer. Glóin drew a deep breath of the earthy mixture and a beam of sunlight came out. As if it had been waiting for it, a thrush started singing, answered by a chorus of other birds in the bushes and trees. As he looked around, Glóin noticed that the ground beneath the bushes closest to him was sprinkled with emerging green. A few early flowers had opened, looking as though they were straining to reach the sun. It was spring. And for the first time, it did not feel like an assault on Glóin’s senses, but like the promise that every last trace of Mordor’s shadow that had ever touched this land would be washed away for good.


End file.
